


The Weather Witch

by Darkravenwrote



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Curse Breaker Harry Potter, Getting Together, HP: EWE, M/M, Ministry of Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Snow, Winter, magical politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-17 13:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13078167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkravenwrote/pseuds/Darkravenwrote
Summary: Winter has come, but Winter has not gone. An unseasonably long, cold spell has fallen over the UK, and quite literally at that -- the Ministry suspects that this is no natural winter. (Prompt from awickedmemory)And as much as they may not like it, the only reasonable thing to do is call The Weather Witch. Or send Harry to deal with it instead.





	The Weather Witch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AWickedMemory (ReadyPlayerZero)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadyPlayerZero/gifts).



> Tadah! Happy holidays, awickedmemory! I fell in love with your prompt as soon as I read it. I could write a 50k fic on this, but limited myself to some getting together mush (or do they?) + magical world politics. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy. I had a blast writing it!
> 
> Thank you to the mods, as usual, for being so gloriously patient with me.

Unfortunately for the country, a mix of Harry's pettiness towards the Ministry and his binding counteract with it mean that he can't help -- a loose term here, as he'd only be doing what the Ministry should have done in the first place -- without their permission or some related loophole in his contract. Given that they have neglected to remember that he, their most experience curse breaker on contract and the only person they have any power over that the Weather Witch will actually talk to, exists, Harry is left completely powerless for several months as the situation outside his window descends further into chaos with every passing day.

One day, when the snow has completely covered his window and he has genuinely begun to wonder how many muggles have lost their lives to cold or starvation, Ron apparates in and tells him a colleague’s broom snapped straight in half that morning about a metre off the ground. Apparently starving, frost-bitten muggles and a broken floo network the Ministry can live with, but employees getting splinters from fragmenting brooms? Unacceptable.

Only an hour later a damp howler wriggles down his charmed chimney.

"Mr Harry Potter," it says politely in the distinctively high pitched voice of Dawn Upperspill, the current head of the Department of Environmental Magic. "Thank you for volunteering your services in regards to the current situation. We hear at the Department of Environmental Magic would like to extend an invitation to you concerning tomorrow's action meeting. The Minister himself is looking forward to your input on this matter. Sincerely, Dawn Upperspill."

Harry scowls at the letter as it rips itself to shreds.

"What was that?" Ron asks as he comes up from the kitchen with two fresh warm butterbeers.

"Ministry taking the piss," Harry grumbles, warming his fingers on the mug Ron hands him and settling back into the worn sofa.

"When don't they? More specifically?"

"I've been invited weeks late to a meeting that I don't know where is being held or at what time."

"Sounds like a bit of a conspiracy, doesn't it?"

"They don't want me involved, but if they've invited me officially it's my fault for not turning up when everything goes even more to shit and they need someone to blame."

"Arseholes! Bloody wankers!"

They sit in companionable, mutually angry silence together for a minute until floorboards above them begin creaking.

They both glare up at it.

"That's all I bloody need," Harry moans.

"You think another section of the roof has caved?"

"Shouldn't have with the new charm." Harry frowns and sets his butterbeer on the battered coffee table. "No point putting it off. With my luck, Mudfungles will move in and rot the floor before dinner's ready."

"I'm not a Mudfungle, thank you very much," Hermione says as she appears on the landing.

" _ Merlin! _ I didn't know you were up there. Harry, did you know she was up there?"

"It's called  _ apparation _ , Ronald, or didn't you hear it's the only viable form of transportation at the moment." She swipes Harry's butterbeer and sips at it. "Now, what's this about a conspiracy?"

"Just the Ministry being dicks."

"What's new?"

"I got a howler from Upperspill. Sounded a bit flustered actually-"

"Well, she would, this must be the first issue Spilly's ever had to deal with in her twenty-five years of office."

"Except that mudslide in '08 that tripped a unicorn."

"Except that," Ron concedes.

" _ Anyway _ , she howlered me inviting me to a crisis meeting without telling me when or where."

"Ah, I see, they're setting you up as a scapegoat." Hermione palms an old magazine -- seven months old in fact -- from beside her feet and opens it at a random page. "Isn't that a good thing though? What you've been waiting for even?" Her eyes peek over the pages at Harry meaningfully.

"Oh?" He asks before what she's suggesting finally sinks in. "Oh!"

"Someone want to fill me in?"

Hermione returns her attention to her magazine, but the crinkling around her eyes tells Harry she's smiling smugly. "They've invited me officially. They've involved me in the case, ergo I have permission to act in its best interest."

"Right?"

"So, I can go do what the Ministry is too scared to either do themselves or should have just asked me to do in the first place."

"Go see the Weather Witch."

"Exactly."

* * *

Harry leaves the next morning.

"Don't sell your soul or anything, will you, mate?" Ron says as Harry slips his wand into his sleeve holster.

"Barter smart," Hermione says as she hugs him ominously like it's the last time she'll see him.

"You're making it sound like I'm walking to the gallows. I was fine last time, and I'll be fine again."

"He's the slipperiest fucker to ever slither out of Hogwarts' dungeons, and you know it." Ron scowls, double checking the shielding charm on Harry's broach.

"I agree. You nearly lost your reputation with the Ministry and the public last time."

"Last time I wasn't prepared. This time will be different."

Harry apparates before they can worry him more. Honestly, he'd rather not let on that the lightness in his stomach could be either nerves or a little thrill of excitement.

He arrives in the front garden of a little country cottage -- thatched roof and all -- which is suspiciously clear of snow. A tiny gnome with a shivering fishing rod squints up at him from the stoop. The first time he came here he half thought it would ask him for a password. It stays silent this time as well though.

When he rings the doorbell the same thing happens as last time too, that is, a rainbow snaps at his fingertips and a cloud promptly grows above his head then spits water on him relentlessly. Harry is annoyed that he forgot to charm his clothes waterproof even though he knew this was coming. Last time he was waiting in the rain for ten minutes, dancing around trying to avoid it. He doesn't bother moving today.

The Weather Witch must be in a good mood today, which bodes well for Harry, because when the door swings open and he steps through an invisible charm that feels like he’s slowly sinking through jelly sucks over him and he finds himself dry on the other side.

His host waits for him in the dark atrium. His dark blue robe glitters like the winter outside and envelopes him entirely, from the swish of it over his expensive shoes to the gaping, shadowy hood which hides his entire face.

“Well, Auror Potter, you’ve come to me at last,” he says, his voice deep and commanding. He uncrosses his folded arms, hands appearing from up his sleeves, and positively floats through to the next room. Harry follows him at a conservative distance, already feeling a tick of annoyance growing. “My intuition tells me you desire aid with the current catastrophe sweeping the nation.” He halts before an archaic cabinet filled with carefully organised and labelled potions. “I may be able to help, although the cause is not mine to know.”

"Circe, what do I have to barter to get you to stop with the theatrics?"

"I'd settle for a kiss," the Weather Witch replies archly as his fingertips dances along potion labels and make the glass tinkle musically together. He lowers his hood slowly though, revealing silken blond hair and his pale, pointed chin. Too pointed, in fact, like he has lost weight in the few months since Harry last saw him.

"Cut it out, Malfoy, haven't you heard of professionalism or, heaven forbid, ethics?"

"Yes, I remember you being very uncooperative last time as well." Malfoy lets out a put-upon sign as he sashays from his potion collection to a bookcase full of ancient tomes that smell musty even from where Harry stands.

"I'm not here to flirt. I'm here on the job, and by the way I’m not an Auror anymore. Can you help or not?"

Malfoy looks at him coyly over his shoulder, eyebrow lifting. "Why can't we do both?" Even through this playfulness though, when his finger skims over the books there is a meaningfulness to his movements, a thoughtfulness to the way he pauses on some volumes as if mentally skimming the contents from memory.

"Like I said, I can't tell you what's causing your little plight, but I might be able to help with settling things down. For a price."

"Which you've yet to name."

"I don't know how much magic it's going to take to fix the fuck up yet." He slips a book from the shelves, opens it, then almost immediately slaps it shut and slides it home forcefully with a displeased tut. He repeats this action several times, then tuts with a tone verging more on disgusted and moves toward another cabinet filled with artifacts Harry doesn’t want to risk getting too close to. “And since I, The Weather Witch, am obviously not qualified to be the Ministry’s primary expert…” Malfoy shrugs, his face hidden by his hair and the shadows of his home. 

"For what it's worth,” Harry says, “I thought the Ministry should have come to you from the beginning, but-"

"But they thought I was probably being nefarious and causing it in the first place. And what do you think about that, Potter?"

"I just said, that we should have-"

"No.” Malfoy turns then, his eyes bright and glimmering at Harry. “Do you think I'm guilty?"

"I think I shouldn't judge someone I hardly know, and shouldn't overlook the fact that the Ministry has an expert in the field on contract even if they’re choosing to ignore that."

"You know me, Potter."

"I don't agree. I know schoolyard bully Malfoy, and perhaps scared war victim Malfoy, but I don't know you."

"Ahhh, I see we're not pulling punches then. Well then, what would you call me now?"

"Successful Malfoy."

Malfoy's face scrunches slightly, like he's actively trying to stop himself preening at the compliment because it's too intimate. Harry’s heartbeat pounds in his ears.

"Yes, I have done rather well for myself, haven't I, even if I am an enemy of the state."

"I don't necessarily think you're guilty like the Ministry does, either."

"Oh?" Malfoy pretends disinterest, toying with the delicate ear of a golden cat statue, but Harry can tell he has Malfoy's rapt attention.

"No. I think it's entirely possible all this has nothing to do with you. But I also think weather magic is still incredibly experimental and it isn't outside the realm of possibility that something went wrong here, but you can't incriminate yourself to me by owning up to it."

"Oh, do you now? As if I'd-"

"And I'm not here to ask you to defend yourself. If that is the case, I think it was an honest accident and I don't think you should get in trouble for it, especially as you're the one most likely to be able to fix it."

"Taking the law into your own hands now, are we?" Malfoy looks unnecessarily gleeful with Harry’s little act of rebellion.

"I'm also not as naive as you think I am."

"Is that so?"

"I think if that's the case, then you're also knowingly using the situation for profit. You knew I'd come to you and I'd have to barter for your services."

"Well, that would be rather conniving of me." Malfoy’s smug smile grows.

"I wouldn't put it past the Ministry to underestimate you, even though they see you as a threat, which is why they didn't actively send me -- don't look surprised, I'm not stupid."

Malfoy’s expression goes carefully blank. An uneasy silence falls between them. Harry determinedly doesn’t break their eye contact first. His stomach flips uneasily and he isn’t sure if it feels more like when he had his first kiss or the first time he thought he was going to lose a fight with a suspect.

By some miracle, Malfoy breaks first. "I've got it! We'll need a ritual." Harry suspects Malfoy’s known how he would start fixing the situation for weeks if not months, so the snap he makes with his fingers is entirely for show and Harry tries not to roll his eyes.

"Does that mean I can get an estimate of payment?"

"It's an old magic ritual. Lots of bodily fluids. I think it'll be payment enough." Malfoy’s eyes travel down the length of Harry’s body and back up suggestively. Harry crosses his arms, unimpressed. "Don't look at me like that, I'm only joking." Malfoy snaps back to his cabinet. "If you're sure that's not for you -- not going to rethink it? No? -- I suppose I could try what basically amounts to a nature reset."

"And such a  _ basic _ solution didn't occur to you earlier?"

"Oh, it did, but you're so much fun I wanted to extend our visit."

"So what do you really require for payment?"

"And a kiss is still out of the question?"

"Malfoy," Harry growls.

"Fine, fine, grumpy. I suppose this weather doesn't agree with everyone. How about a date?"

"Stop joking around. If you keep going I'll go back and tell them you're useless and it was all your fault. Be serious."

"I wasn't actually joking."

"I don't want to be manipulated into a date with a skeevy business associate as payment."

"Ouch. Fine, I guess a day's worth of access to the Ministry's historical personnel records will do."

"That's a pretty high price there, Malfoy. You think they'll be willing to pay that?"

"I think they might not have done if they'd sent you before muggles started losing their limbs to frostbite."

Harry hums agreeably. "I can probably get you that, if it's for a cure."

"This is a cu-"

"You haven't guaranteed it will work." Harry smirks back when Malfoy scowls at him. "This payment will cover all your attempts to fix the situation, not just this ritual or spell, or whatever it is you're going to do."

"Who knows how many tries I'll have to go through, it might take an awful lot of work to-"

"Twenty-four hours and that's your lot."

Malfoy doesn’t even pause to consider; he’s obviously had a lot of time to think about this. "I accept your terms." With one last stare, Malfoy seems to lose interest in Harry’s existence. He wanders across to a tidy potion table, flicking his wand at the pewter cauldron to set it bubbling. "You can leave now," he says over his shoulder.

"Now?"

"Who knows how long this'll take, and you're already in my way." As if to illustrate the point, he brushes past Harry, their shoulders bumping with a soft whisper of fabric. "Move," he says tonelessly.

Harry shuffles back towards the archway he entered through. "When should I come back to check on your progress?"

"Unnecessary. You'll know when I succeed when you can feel your nose again." Malfoy’s attention is dragged back to his work. His concentration is admirable, attractive even. "Are you still here?"

"I could come by for an update and your signed permission on Saturday?"

"My business hours are limited to weekdays,” Malfoy mutters without taking even a speck of concentration from his brewing.

"I know."

That gets Malfoy’s attention. He half turns, showing off his stern profile for Harry to admire. His spine and shoulders have curled slightly, making him appear like an unsure, wounded animal. "I thought you didn't want to 'be manipulated into a date with a skeevy business associate as payment.'"

"I don't.” Harry tries not to pause for effect, because it would be cruel. “I want a date with Draco Malfoy."

"Being the Weather Witch is part of me, Potter. It's not going to suddenly turn off because I'm not working at certain hours."

"I understand that. It's not the Weather Witch I'm adverse to; it's being played around like a doll at your command. I want to date you because I want to date you, not because the country is in peril. And I want the same from you too. So don't agree unless that's true for you too."

"You and your morals, Potter. I've only been trying to get in your pants since before you became my liaison."

"Okay, I'm only your liaison because you won't deal with anyone else."

"I don't want to get in anyone else’s pants."

Sensing that this is an argument he can’t win, and that any productivity would vanish if he tried, Harry chooses to retreat. "I'm going now. Please fix this shitshow." He stops suddenly at the front door, his wand rattling in its holster at the sudden movement. "So, Saturday?" he calls back through the empty atrium.

But Malfoy's face, just visible around the archway, is already blank with concentration as he examines some kind of exotic herb. His hand waves distractedly and a gentle but persistent wind ushers Harry out. The door hits him on the way out and Harry's soaked to the bone again in seconds. Malfoy was smiling slightly, though, so Harry takes that as a 'yes'.

By the time he gets home, at least an inch of snow has vanished and he can just about see a line of grey sky along the top of his ground floor windows.

Standing on Malfoy's doorstep that Saturday, a ray of sunshine falls across his face, and it isn't from Malfoy's temperamental guard cloud. Malfoy’s smile, when Harry produces a vial of rare butterfly antenna along with his permission slip, is just as bright.


End file.
